


The Fault of a Cup of Tea

by Robbed



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Charles being a weirdo and making Erik uncomfortable, Emotionally Crippled Erik, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4856972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robbed/pseuds/Robbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fascinating,” Charles murmurs, expression lighting up in understanding. Erik can’t see what’s so fascinating about being vegetarian or Jewish, but then again he isn’t the type of guy to chase the company of a man whose shoes he’s spilt tea on.</p><p>In which Erik is a restless, grumpy traveller, and Charles is a young, brash professor who's got a smart mouth on him. The story of how they came together is an odd one... And then, as if that weren't enough, there's also Charles' family to deal with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fault of a Cup of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> I decided that I was skulking around in the Cherik fandom for long enough and reading all these lovely fics by people like ikeracity, endingthemes, Butterynutjob, and Thacmis, and I'm all like "Okay, I'm done. I gotta get some Cherik outta my system."
> 
> I suck at writing, and I haven't written a fanfiction in ages. Or anything, actually. And I've never worked with Cherik before. P: But I definitely hope this will be the first of many Cherik fanfics to come.

In retrospect, the story of how he met Charles is a rather odd one. It’s not that Erik wasn’t aware of the hilarity of the situation at the time—he knows just how unusual Charles was... _is_ —and while he certainly hadn’t thought ill of Charles, he wasn’t exactly lenient in his thoughts towards the younger man, either.

Charles insists that Erik was surprisingly temperate towards him, considering how rudely Erik treats most of their friends and colleagues ( _I’m not rude,_ Erik will argue, _I’m just being honest_ , to which Charles will reply: _Making my students cry does_ not _count as being “just honest”, Erik_ ).

Erik reflects on it every once in a while. He’s never considered himself a man of the past; he tends to brush past it, forgetting anything that isn’t directly relevant to the here and now.

Somehow, Charles seems to break some sort of barrier between past and present, seeing as he’s certainly part of Erik’s here and now—in fact, Charles _is_ Erik’s everything at the moment, whether or not Erik likes to pretend otherwise.

Charles isn’t exactly humble about it, either. He flaunts it every now and then, and Erik’s lost track of the number of times Charles has told the story of how they met. Whatever Charles is, he _definitely_ isn’t shy, because half of Westchester seems to know how Charles and his grumpy, constantly-moody boyfriend got together.

“Oh, come now,” says Charles pleasantly every time Erik complains of running into one of Charles’ friends, his family, even his _students_ who somehow have committed the entire story of how they’d met to memory. “You have to admit, it’s a fantastic attention-grabber. Every time I tell it in class, I swear the students snap right out of their napping.”

Erik’s learnt by now not to argue with Charles, not when he’s so adamant. Charles rarely waives his points, anyway, holding on very tightly to his opinions. It’s something like a suicide mission to engage in debate with the man. (Of course, Charles is very open to rational debate with anyone else—just not with _Erik_.)

But he does have to admit that Charles isn’t _wrong_.

Despite his dislike of lingering on the past, Erik finds himself ruminating on it one night as he lies in bed beside Charles, their legs tangled beneath the warmth of the blankets, his arm draped over Charles’ hip.

 _Things have changed_ , he realises very suddenly as he lies there in bed, Charles wrapped securely in his arms and breathing softly under his hold.

And they have. So steadily and gradually that he hasn’t even noticed it.

As he gazes into Charles’ sleeping face, at the face that holds all his precious memories in this world—the face that, he suddenly knows, holds his _future_ —Erik thinks of the past. Thinks of now.

He’s ready, Erik realises, to move on.

\--

_._

_Seven months prior_

_._

… When Erik first arrives in the small Westchester town, he doesn't expect to stay long. He comes only with the bare essentials, stashing the most of his things in a small motel room that he's booked only for a week. The receptionist had glanced at him, decidedly unimpressed by the travel-worn trunk he lugged in with him into the cramped, poorly air-conditioned room, and probably figured he was another tourist. Ignoring his unimpressed scowl at her deduction, she’d shoved a key into his hand and waved him towards the second floor before turning back to her phone. He’d flipped her off before proceeding to his room and passing out for the next couple of days, worn from the constant wear of travel.

Awful service aside, the town is actually growing on Erik. The air is fresh here, where there are fewer cars and factories. He sets his eyes forward (he likes to keep up the image of having a one track mind—it keeps people from approaching), but in the corner of his vision he watches men and women, children, couples, drifting down the sidewalk with the fresh spring breeze. Some of them spare him a glance, having spotted a strange face among their usual crowd. But he's left to his own business for the most part.

Erik never stays long. He takes to the country in long, erratic strides, leaping from one town to the next as his impulses demand, never planning. He's never been much of a sedentary person. He prefers the freedom of hopping from place to place, movements left uncultivated by anything other than what the restlessness of his body demands. He attributes some of it to an uneventful childhood, to illness so often encapsulating him in his own bed and home that years later, he’s finally channeling all that pent-up energy. He scours each new country in this same way, tearing through first through Germany, then through Switzerland, Russia, England.

Europe is largely small, with tiny little towns and cramped houses. At least, that's what Erik has seen most of his life. America, on the other hand, is gargantuan, sprawling with urbanisation and, not unlike Europe, densely chattering crowd. He's never been to a place quite like this before. The air is different (sometimes it tastes like ashes and smog on his tongue, and Erik misses the clean Swiss mountain air more than ever. But most of it, thankfully, is cleaner than the Paris stench). The most of it is tinged with bustling cities, masses of human bodies pressing together on the subway, on the streets of Manhattan, Los Angeles, Philadelphia. It’s not as crowded as Europe, but he still feels as if he’s surrounded completely on all sides.

Last month's migration carried him through Virginia, then up through Maryland and Pennsylvania and Maryland and into New York. There's not much direction to his travels. There's no place he wants to end up, nothing tying him down into a city or a home. It's probably the best way for someone like Erik to live: directionless. Impulsive. Alone.

The little Westchester town isn't of much interest to him. It _does_ reminds him of the Kansas neighborhood he'd spent several months in when he first came to the states. There's a thick strain of industry here, in particular, all sponsored singly by a large corporation that's supposedly had its hold in the county for several decades. Unusual for such a small town, but Erik doesn't bother to find out more. It's not of much consequence when he's moving out in a few days.

There are a few small plazas, a mall, some quiet shops lining what he supposes is the small town equivalent of a bustling downtown centre. He wanders down the street for a few minutes, attracting the attention of a few more residents who've picked him out as the obvious foreigner. Erik ignores them, shoving his hands into his empty pockets and continuing briskly down the sidewalk. It's the first time he's been out of his stifling room since he checked in—two days brushing off exhaustion through hours of smothered sleep. Compared to the motel room, the sidewalk seems vast, stretching on for miles.

He ducks into a coffee shop that looks relatively empty. He hasn't drunk anything in hours, and his throat feels the strain. The place is a little musty, as if it's been shut for years and only opened its doors this morning. But it's not a bad kind of musty—more the sort that inspires fleeting thoughts of old tea shops cramped into corners of main streets, of women and beehive cuts and men in Sunday suits. Few customers are scattered throughout the shop, sipping at mugs… not those flimsy plastic cups the commercial chains like to use so much, _real_ cups. Erik thinks briefly of his mother and father, how they might have liked to come to the States and to this little coffee shop. Erik finds himself actually warming up to the place.

That is, until someone blindly walks into him and drops their drink right onto his shoes. The mug capsizes, splashing the dark water over Erik’s good sneakers and up to the knee of his pants.

“Oh! I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry,” someone is stammering below Erik as he stares down at the murky liquid soaking through the canvas. _Tea, not coffee_ , thinks Erik. Thank the Lord for that, at least; the smell of coffee is so much harder to rub out. “Don’t worry, um, I’ll pay for them!”

“It’s fine,” Erik grumbles, trying for nonchalance (he _liked_ these shoes, _goddammit_ ) but it comes out in more of a growl. All inclination towards the shop completely dissipated, he turns to leave. But the man catches his shoulder with a surprisingly strong hand.

“No, really,” the offender is saying. Erik’s ears pick up the English accent— _did he go to Oxford?_ _An Englishman in a town like this, what on earth is he doing here—_ as the man continues to babble profuse apologies: “Please, let me make it up to you. I’m rather a klutz, I will admit, and I don’t intend to let this go without putting up a fight. Oh, I haven’t seen you around before, you must be new in town! Then again, I don’t get out much, I hardly see anyone but the children”—then, sensing that Erik’s interest is waning (Erik doesn’t particularly like talkers, but wait, did this man say he has _children_?)—“Well, won’t you let me buy your drink, at least?”

“Fine, fine,” Erik grounds out, exasperated, before he can stop himself. He briefly considers changing his mind and walking out on the stranger. Then again, it isn’t completely a waste of time, seeing as he’ll get something free out of it.

Erik looks the man up and down. Tweed jacket, messy brown hair, bright blue eyes, and red lips that definitely can’t be natural. The man—well, more like _boy_ —smiles cheerily as Erik scrutinises the rounded curves of his face and jaw, much less sharply defined and much smoother than Erik’s own jutting jaw and cheekbones. Jesus, Erik didn’t even look like this when he was in high school. How young _is_ this kid?

The man, kid, whatever he is, beams as if Erik weren’t staring creepily at him a moment ago. “Charles,” he says, sticking a hand out to shake. “Charles Xavier.”

Erik ignores his offered hand.

Charles, seeing that his audience’s eyes are now fixed intently on the shop’s exit, quickly changes strategies. “So, how about that drink?”

\--

Charles is far more persistent than Erik predicted.

The last time he met the kid, he hoped it would be the last time. It’s not that Charles is that much of a nuisance, but Erik generally doesn’t make friends. It’s too troublesome, especially with his spontaneous urges to move. His restless body can never be pacified long enough for goodbyes, and in the end he finds most acquaintances aren’t worth the effort. Charles probably means well, but he’s overfamiliar and seems to have no sense of personal space.

Not to mention that he still hasn’t forgiven the boy for what’s happened to his shoes. Erik may not be able to hold a proper friendship, but he can hold grudges pretty damn well.

Since then, Erik stuck to the general area of his motel, only straying out late at night to catch a smoke or grab a bite of food. Two whole days sped by without any sight of Charles, and by the third day Erik deemed it safe to venture out to explore the town a bit more.

Unfortunately, Charles has either planted a tracker on Erik, or Erik’s got the worst luck, because just as he’s filed at the back of a line in a crowded deli, he hears someone call out to him.

Erik opts to feign ignorance. Maybe Charles is shouting to someone else? But after a few minutes he has to cave in. Obviously, he hasn’t been introduced to anybody else, and only one person would call him “Shoe Guy”.

He considers walking out of the store, but figures that Charles will give up on him eventually. By the time he realises that Charles isn’t going to let up, several more people have pushed through the doors and locked him tightly into the line. If he wants to get out of the deli, he’ll have to shove his way through a thick gathering of ravenous hipsters and university students.

He decides quickly that he’d rather bear Charles’ stubborn poking.

Just then, Charles pushes through a group of people standing between him and Erik, eyes lighting up when Erik nods at him in acknowledgement. “I thought I’d recognised you!” he says, a broad grin spreading across his face. He glances down, sticking his hands in the pockets of the same tweed jacket he wore the other day. Erik regards it disdainfully—it hasn’t gotten any easier on his eyes since he first saw it. “You got new shoes?”

“Spare pair,” Erik shrugs, avoiding eye contact. He’s glad that he’s tall enough to look over everyone else’s heads so he can pretend he’s keeping his eye on the menu rather than have to look at Charles.

“You got away last time before I could compensate you for your ruined pair,” scolds Charles, shaking his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Erik can see his messy mop of hair flopping around his ears. “I said I’d make up for that. I meant it.”

“I don’t need you to make up for it,” says Erik, hoping his clipped words will send Charles running. But all he gets is a scoff and another shake of the head.

“Rude,” admonishes Charles, actually reaching up to smack Erik on the shoulder lightly. “I’m trying to be _nice_. You could at least show some appreciation.”

“I do appreciate it.”

“Then you might try and _show_ it,” retorts Charles, making himself comfortable by Erik’s side. The air in the overcrowded deli is even more suffocating when Charles presses closer to Erik to let customers pass him by. Erik resists the urge to step away—not that there was anywhere to step, unless he wants to crush someone’s foot. And God knows he doesn’t need some starving teenager to start bitching at him if he so much as accidentally nudges their toe. Maybe if Erik ignores Charles long enough, he’ll go away. “How long have you been here? Have you seen the sights yet? I could show you around town, if you want.”

“I think I’m fine,” says Erik sharply, craning his neck to stare fixedly on the menu. The line’s barely budged. Who knows how long he’ll be stuck here with Charles and his blathering.

“Oh, come on. You know, I’ve lived here for fifteen years. Fifteen whole years of my life, can you imagine? I know every shop and alley in town. Saves you having to figure out a map on your own. What do you say?”

Apparently Charles doesn’t know how to take hints. “I’m only in town for a week,” Erik says flatly.

“Hm. Where are you heading next?”

Erik shrugs.

“Impulsive traveler, then?”

“Maybe.”

“Then you might as well learn some things before you leave. You can’t just stop by a town and leave without learning a thing or two,” insists Charles. It doesn’t look like he’s willing to take no for an answer, but Erik isn’t willing to acquiesce so easily, either.

Erik turns to glare down at Charles. But that doesn’t appear to intimidate the shorter man; Charles’ smile just grows wider. “Are you some kind of travel fanatic?” Erik demands. God _forbid_ he be stuck in line next to some overzealous traveler who’s going to expound on his devotion to _travel journals_ and _guides_ for the next two hours.

Charles considers the question with some amusement. “You could say that, yes.”

“Well, _I’m_ not.”

“You don’t have to be a fanatic. You’ve just got to have basic appreciation for a place and its history. Come on now, if the tourists can handle that, then surely you can, too.”

“Don’t compare me to tourists.”

Charles rolls his eyes. “Well, then why don’t you let me show you around town a bit and maybe save you from having to compare yourself to a stick in the mud?”

“What are you trying to do, extort me? I don’t have any money to spare for any of your tourist attractions.”

“Christ! I’m not trying to extort you, my friend,” groans Charles, hushing Erik when he opens his mouth to object. “Why don’t I show you the sights, then we have lunch? My treat.”

Erik furrows his brow. “What exactly do you want?”

Charles shrugs. “That’s for you to figure out.”

“You spill tea on my shoes, buy me a drink, and now you offer to buy me lunch and won’t leave me alone. We met and talked for ten minutes. You don’t even know me.”

“I like meeting new people,” is Charles’ response. As if that explains it all away.

Erik can’t hold back the incredulous _ha!_ that slips from between his lips. “Are you _that_ starved for company?”

“I can easily find company that’s not as rude as you,” Charles replies easily, jerking his head towards the front of the line. “It’s your turn, by the way. Going to order anything?”

Without waiting, he moves into the empty space before Erik, heading up towards the service counter. Erik watches his back, notes the confidence clear in every step he takes. _Damn cheeky kid._

Charles stops at the counter and glances back, an eyebrow raised in amusement. “Well? Or are you going to let me pick for you?”

“Nothing with bacon,” Erik says hastily, stepping up to stand beside Charles. For all his ogling at the menu, he still hasn’t figured out what he wants.

“Vegetarian?” asks Charles, looking genuinely curious.

“Jewish,” he replies dryly.

“Fascinating,” Charles murmurs, expression lighting up in understanding. Erik can’t see what’s so fascinating about being vegetarian or Jewish, but then again he isn’t the type of guy to chase the company of a man whose shoes he’s spilt tea on.

Although he could be only slightly opposed to admitting he might have enjoyed spending his afternoon with a man who spilt tea on shoes and may or may not spend his free time analyzing the habits of vegetarian and Jewish people.

\--

“It occurs to me,” says Charles the next evening over his bowl of soup, “that I haven’t learnt your name yet.”

Erik glances up at him disbelievingly before turning back to his steak. “I figured you were fascinated enough by my being Jewish to bother wondering about my name.”

“Smart alec,” growls Charles, spearing a piece of fish with his fork. (Erik’s never met anyone who eats soup with a spoon _and_ fork. Charles is definitely insane—he’s starting to suspect the other is acting this way deliberating to spite him.) “So?”

“‘So’ what?”

“Name!” demands his tablemate petulantly, drawing the attention of half the restaurant to their corner table. Erik ignores their stares, cutting up another piece of meat unconcernedly. Charles seems equally unfazed, leaning forward. “C’mon. Tell me, or I’ll have to guess it. And trust me, you don’t want to play that game with me. I’ll keep going on for days. I never tire of it, I’ll drive you up the wall soon enough. So you might as well tell me now.”

“You seemed to be happy enough calling me ‘Shoe Guy’,” shrugs Erik, popping a bite of steak into his mouth and watching Charles’ expression flutter from irritation to embarrassment. “Why don’t you just carry on with that?”

“To be fair,” he says defensively, “I wanted to ask your name, but you ran off too quickly the first time we met.”

“And then you spent a whole four hours with me yesterday. You’re telling me it didn’t occur to you to ask then?”

Charles flushes darkly. “I kind of forgot about that. You know, after the whole incident where you nearly got us kicked out of the aquarium for nearly shoving me into the touch tank.”

Erik starts in his seat, trying to fight off the bright red guilt/shame threatening to eat its way up his neck and ears. “I thought we said we’d never mention that again.”

“It was _your_ fault,” Charles argues, “you ruined my good suit!”

“It was an ugly thing, anyway.”

Charles stares at him, mortified. “Excuse you! It’s my favourite outfit!”

“It’s _tweed_.”

“Yes?” says Charles, eyes narrowing. He shifts, folding his legs and crossing his arms, daring Erik to challenge him. “ _And_?”

“Jesus, come on. _Tweed_! What are you, some sixty-year-old professor?”

Charles lifts his chin in defiance, eyes bearing down on Erik sharply. “While I’m not sixty years old, I _am_ a professor, I’ll have you know.”

Erik takes a second to process the information, and when he does he nearly chokes on his food. “Wait, what?” He lifts his head to stare at Charles, searching for a smirk, a grin, any hint of joking. “You’re a—a _professor_? Hold on, how old are you even?”

“Twenty-two.”

Erik’s jaw drops. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaims, leaning back in his seat and running a hand through his hair. “Twenty-two and a professor! No wonder I thought you looked young… What do you teach?”

“Genetics,” says Charles proudly, that slightly bemused expression still spread across his face. His lips curl into something like a smirk, the closest Erik’s ever seen on Charles’ face, anyway. “Molecular Genetics and Genetics Laboratory, actually.” Then, a little more hesitantly: “And, um… wait. How old are _you_?”

“Thirty-one,” says Erik weakly, still feeling the steak lodged halfway down his throat. Charles gapes.

“But… but you look so young!”

“Hardly. Or maybe you look too old.” It’s not true—Charles could practically be a schoolboy, and Erik’s sure he knows it—but Erik says it anyway, just to have something to throw back in Charles’ direction.

“Goddamn,” Charles grins, tilting back with a light chuckle. “I thought you were around my age. I mean, really. Thirty-one and still travelling on impulse like that? I thought you were still fresh out of university or something. Twenty-six at the most, I thought. What on earth is someone like you doing, hopping from city to city?”

Erik pauses. “Just moving around, I guess. Looking for someplace to settle.” It’s not entirely untrue. Erik isn’t actively searching to find a home in the United States, but he wouldn’t be opposed to staying if he found somewhere that suited him. He’s not expecting much, though—he’ll probably end up back in Europe, in Germany or in Switzerland. He likes the sweet, clear air of the mountains more than the screeching of cars and glinting metal of the cities.

Charles watches him cautiously, interesting flickering in those bright blue eyes. “How do you pay for travel expenses?”

“Not like I travel by plane all the time. Mostly I take the train. Walk. Hitchhike. Anything that works out. Don’t get that look—it’s all paid for. I have some money saved up.”

“You’re far too old to be moving around so restlessly,” sighs Charles, sloshing the soup around in the bowl with his spoon. Some of it spills over, splattering the lace of the tablecloth. “Not that I mean to sound condescending or anything. You’re not _old_ , I mean,” he says quickly, stirring the soup nervously. “Dear God, I should just stop talking.”

“Like I’ve told you hundreds of times.” But Erik doesn’t really mind. He’s learnt in the last few days that Charles has no real filter when he’s around Erik. Charles can certainly be polite when he wants to be, but with Erik politeness appears to be the least of his interests.

“Oh, shut up,” says Charles, tossing a fish bone at him. Erik dodges it easily enough, beating down the giddiness that bursts in his chest and fights to burst forth in a fit of laughter.

They fall into a silence after that. It’s not uncomfortable, but Erik finds himself missing Charles’ chatter, anyway.

“So,” says Charles after a few minutes. He lifts his eyes to Erik inquiringly; Erik recognises now when the other man is digging for information. His eyes tell it all, the emotions shining through gleaming blue as easily as the words fall from his mouth. “When is it that you’re leaving again?”

Erik stops, fork halfway to his lips. He straightens, setting the silverware back onto his plate—this, Charles’ inquiry, feels far more urgent than eating. It demands his full attention. He clears his throat, wondering if he heard Charles wrong. “Pardon?”

“Your departure,” Charles repeats. “You said yesterday that you were planning on staying here for a week or so, right?”

“Something like that,” Erik says, reaching for his water glass. His mouth suddenly feels dry.

“So when did you plan to leave?” Charles asks, his eyes searching Erik’s for answers, confirmation, assurance…

“I don’t know,” says Erik honestly.

Charles regards him briefly, brow furrowing. He holds Erik’s gaze for a moment more. “Never mind,” he says at last, hurriedly. “Never mind that I asked at all. Sorry about that.”

Then he drops back to his soup, leaving Erik speechless, confused. A few minutes later, he starts going on about classes—something about his Saturday genetics lecture at the local university and how he loves walking through the campus in the early morning—and it’s as if they never had the conversation.

Erik realises belatedly, seven blocks from the restaurant and nearly an hour after he and Charles have exchanged awkward farewells, that he never got around to telling Charles his name.

\--

The receptionist is still tapping at her phone with startling urgency when Erik steps into the lobby, hours after he left the motel to head to lunch with Charles. He’s still not sure how the hours swept by so quickly, or how lunch had turned into another day out and then dinner.

He wonders how the receptionist can still have so much to do on that little device four hours after she started. Erik would lose interest in something like that all too quickly.

The girl, distractedly typing out a text message on her screen, doesn’t notice him as he starts to move past the reception desk and towards the stairs that lead to his room on the second floor. Then he stops. Turns and steps back towards the reception desk.

“Excuse me?”

The girl’s head snaps up, squinting at him as if she’s only just realised he’s here. “Oh,” she says. “You’re the guy on the second floor, right? The one who’s clearing out tomorrow? What do you want?”

Before he can stop himself, Erik’s already reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out another bundle of cash. He places it on the desk, pushes it across to the receptionist, who picks it up and begins flipping through the bills, lips moving silently as she adds up the numbers.

“So… you want to keep the room for another week?” she says at last, raising her eyes questioningly to meet his.

Erik doesn’t even stop to think before replying, “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> ... Posting this first chapter at 2:47AM, my schooling and sleep are severely compromised thanks to goddamn Cherik fics. D: all these amazing people had better stop writing fanfiction, you guys make me addicted. ;;o;;


End file.
